


Stray Heart

by Kitoko_kun



Category: My Chemical Romance
Genre: Alternate Universe, Cat/Human Hybrids, Catboys & Catgirls, Dog/Human Hybrids, Dogboys & Doggirls, Enemies to Lovers, Humor, M/M, Masturbation
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-14
Updated: 2020-12-14
Packaged: 2021-03-10 20:15:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,000
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28063020
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kitoko_kun/pseuds/Kitoko_kun
Summary: Frank hates a lot of things, it's what fuels his punk band. He mainly hates his job, his crappy apartment and cats.He also hates Gerard Way.
Relationships: Frank Iero/Gerard Way
Comments: 28
Kudos: 48





	Stray Heart

**Author's Note:**

  * For [bluestatic](https://archiveofourown.org/users/bluestatic/gifts).



> A little heads-up: Characters in this story are 90% human and 10% cats/dogs. Meaning they are mostly humans, but have ears and tails of animals. If that's okay with you, go ahead! If not, no hard feelings!

It was one thing to be doing the walk of shame back to his apartment under insufferable sunlight and an even worse taste of booze in his mouth from last night, feeling his hair so dirty it stuck to his forehead, and his leather jacket so sweaty it had become a second skin he now couldn’t remove because his t-shirt had been nowhere to be found.

It was another thing to be doing the walk of shame back to his apartment under insufferable sunlight and all of the previous description when you were famous enough for people to recognize you on the street and not care about your sad current state as long as they got to take a selfie and ask for an autograph. Really the worst level of fame; enough to be recognized, but not to walk around with a bodyguard or travel inside a luxurious car with polarized windows.

Well, he didn’t actually want those things. Part of what made being in a band worth it was meeting fans, it’s just that he’d prefer to be in a less deplorable condition to do so.

“Oh my dog, you’re Frank Iero!” 

“That’s what my driver’s license says.” 

The joke not only earned him laughs from the two girls who had approached him, but also so much happy wagging their tails made a blurry trail behind them. Everything in their body language seemed genuine, their ears playfully up and a smile on their faces. None of them looked underaged, although they were wearing makeup so it was difficult to tell for sure, and the fact that they were being so honest in their reaction made them seem a bit young; most adult dog-people rolled their eyes when someone let their tail waggle in excitement like that. In his 24, Frank still found it endearing.

Obviously he wasn’t analyzing them with ulterior motives, he had morals and didn’t sleep with groupies.

Okay, he had morals since today, last night didn’t count. Frank had learned his lesson after facing pictures of himself in his hook-up’s apartment and starting to have the suspicion his t-shirt might have been stolen instead of lost.

“I’m assuming you’ll be needing a selfie?”

“Yes, please! Thank you so much!” One of them stood next to him while the other took out her phone for the picture. “So, is it true you got that scar from fighting the police?”

Frank’s right ear twitched on reflex; they were the same color as his hair and tail, dark without going full black. More than a scar, he was missing a piece of his ear on one side, a bite-shaped hole almost reaching the pointed end. It made him have only half of the piercings he wore on his left. “It’s true. You know, all cops are bastards.”

“1312!” Said the girl next to him.

To be honest, it had been a drunken fight, but who knows, right? Maybe the guy had been an undercover cop. Or had a relative who was a cop. Or a friend who one time stood too close to a cop. Whatever, he deserved what he got, which was way worse than missing a bit of an ear.

“My turn!” Shouted the girl holding the phone, making both of Frank’s ears stick to his head, trying to muffle the sound going straight to his hungover brain. And then he felt the girl’s tail, white and extremely fluffy —way more than his—, grazing the back of his legs. It had to be on purpose. “Your music really inspires me.”

“Thanks. Listen, I have to get going, but thank you so much, and see you at the next show, okay?”

He walked away as he spoke, waving his hand in an attempt to put distance between them, because he was now sure the situation would end up in them inviting him to a more private place and, well, he was just a puppy trying to have some morals, he wasn’t dead.

He turned around to continue his walk of shame, grinding his teeth when he could totally hear them whispering.

“I thought he’d be taller.” 

“I told you he was tiny!”

Bitches.

What? They were!

***

Reaching his building, he took the keys from his pocket and turned them on the keyhole proceeding to slightly raise the doorknob at the same time before trying to open the door because that was a trick he learned after bruising his shoulder several times. Another thing he learnt the bad way was paying attention to where he put his next step while walking the three flight of stairs to his apartment because of course there were no elevators, and he needed to be looking at the floor to tell the dead cockroaches apart from the so-called pattern on the carpet that was there only to camouflage the stains. Well, it was a bit unfair to talk in plural about it when in reality he only saw one cockroach corpse a week, in a different spot. Sometimes he thought it was the same bug playing dead and switching places so one would catch it.

No matter how often he walked those stairs, his legs were still burning when he reached his door, and once more he thought about telling Ray they should move. And then Ray would say: “Pfff, with what money?”, and Frank would say: “Pfff, it doesn’t matter”, and Ray would reply: “Pfff, I can’t talk to you”, and Frank would reply: “Pfff, I cAn’T tAlK tO yOu” and it will be end of discussion.

He loved living with Ray.

He loved even more to get the door open —after kicking it two times on the left side, because all in that building had its trick— and find out his roommate was cooking lunch. “Have I proposed to you yet?”

“Have you grown tits yet?”

“That’s disrespectful.”

“I meant breasts.”

“Not better.”

Frank unzipped his jacket, finally getting it detached from his skin; it was really gross. Fuck that heat wave. And global warming. And also staying out so late and getting back to his apartment when the sun was already out. It was true he didn’t owe any explanations, but he knew he needed to improve his sleeping schedule and they also had band practice in a few hours. “What time is Pete coming over?”

“Three pm.” 

That could be a good moment to take a shower and be somewhat presentable for guests, only Frank felt he hadn’t been sufficiently annoying yet. “What are you making?” he asked, peeking over one of Ray’s shoulders, seeing something boiling in a pot.

“Pasta.”

Frank scratched his face, wondering if he should shave. The scruff was getting itchy. “Didn’t we have that like three days ago?”

“No, we didn’t. We had tacos.”

“That was yesterday,” he argued, despite not being completely sure about it, and got close to a corner in the kitchen entrance to scratch his back, moving from side to side, his face scrunching up because he couldn’t reach the most itchy spot. 

Ray’s ears twitched among his curly hair, the same color as them, as if they had just started paying attention around them. He turned to Frank and watched him a bit curious. “It was taco Tuesday, remember? We had sandwiches yesterday,” he said, a lot more sure than Frank was, and walked over to him, still holding the wooden spoon in one hand, but using the free one to scratch his friend. Over the jacket, of course.

“No, we--Oh fuck, right there, right there,” he shut his eyes, sighing in relief, and his tail started wagging happily. “No, no, no, keep going!” Frank demanded when Ray tried to go back.

“I’m trying to cook here,” said Ray, although he kept scratching him a bit more, until a horrible realization came over him and his eyes opened wide. “Dude. No,” he immediately got away from Frank, frowning. The wooden spoon was suddenly being used for an accusation. “You have fleas again!”

“I do not!” Frank got offended, even though he had taken a step towards Ray and was trying to scratch himself with his hand.

“You do, I can fucking see them, Frank!” Ray took his hand back and brought to his own chest, trying to save it and put more distance between them. “Go stand by the door! No, we can’t have an infestation in the apartment again! GO!”

“You’re blowing this way out of proportion,” Frank argued, ignoring the fact he couldn’t stop scratching his head and ears, or his tail and legs with the other hand. “Maybe I’m just having allergies and you’re being an insensitive fuck.”

“Sure, yeah, allergic to your hook-up?” Ray turned off the stove and began rummaging through their cabinets while Frank growled lowly, stepping out of the kitchen in semi defeat. “You can’t keep getting fleas from one night stands, for fuck’s sake.”

“What am I supposed to do?! Ask them for a health certificate?”

“Exactly! That’s EXACTLY what you should do and why the fuck, Frank, aren’t you wearing a t-shirt?”

Frank was dropping the jacket on the floor and shrugged. “I, uh, gave it away.”

“Lost it? Stolen? It better not have been one of mine…” Frank bit his bottom lip and gave him an innocent look, fluttering his eyelashes. “Don’t try and give me puppy eyes, I can do them too, you know? Lift your arms.”

“I hate this,” Frank complained, while getting in position for Ray to spray him with a horrid liquid. “AAAAH, I HATE IT HERE!” he shouted, his nose scrunching and his mouth trying to bite an enemy with no physical body. The closest he had was grunting.

“I’m calling Pete, he can’t come over,” Ray decided, reaching to his practical side. “You wait fifteen minutes until this dries and then take a shower.”

“Fifteen minutes?!” Frank acted shocked, as if that wasn’t a scene they had to repeat at least once a month. “What am I supposed to do for fifteen minutes?!”

“Face the wall and think about what you’ve done!”

“Are you really giving me time out?”

“YES!”

Frank lowered his ears.

***

Once again Frank found himself sweating under the sun and although he was in a better condition that before —almost no more booze oozing from his pores—, his body began resenting the lack of sleep. Stepping out of his apartment without taking a nap only to walk for 30 minutes because they didn’t have a car and Ray said it made no sense to spend money on a bus ticket when walking was such a healthy activity, was pure torture. Pure, personalized torture, exclusively made for Frank.

Still affected by the flea episode, he scratched his head. His hair was shorter on the sides and a bit longer in the middle, but not as much as when he used to have a faux-hawk. It wasn’t long enough to blame his body overheating for it, nor was him not being able to shave with Ray rushing him to eat and shower so they could head over to Pete’s, because Mikey was already there.

Mikey was applying for their band. Frank was the vocalist and rhythm guitarist, Ray did back vocals and main guitar, Pete was on the drums and evidently they needed a bassist in the equation, because their previous one had left to pursue his dream and who were they to stop him from creating edibles shaped like bones. No one, really. No one because they were equally interested in trying out the final product.

Going back to the band, Pete had found the perfect person, in his opinion, and had restlessly insisted for Frank and Ray to watch him perform live in a presentation where he was doing a one-time replacement. It had been last night and despite how Frank didn’t like acknowledging someone else had been right, especially Pete, he was pretty amazed by how talented that dude was, enough to accept meeting him in person. Obviously it would have been ideal to do it back at the club, but Frank had an encounter with a fan and one thing led to another —that thing being the fan and the other, their apartment. Well, it didn’t matter. No harm, no foul, except for Ray’s t-shirt and how the horrid anti-fleas spray was still stuck to Frank’s nose.

Walking through Doghood, sorry, Oniville —as was the official name of that part of the city,— during the day was just depressing. At night it was easier to ignore the overall dirtiness, how rundown the buildings were, the lack of green areas and the holes on the sidewalks. Every corner and crack was filled with ancient garbage; cigarette butts that seemed to have become one with the asphalt, plastic bottles so gray they almost couldn’t be tell apart anymore and the occasional condom left on the ground that made you wonder if people were actually having safe sex out there, or the complete opposite. Frank much preferred the night life, if he could choose.

Pete’s building was as old as theirs. Ray had to press his neighbor’s button on the intercom to let him know they were out there, because under the 113 tag was only a hole with a few chewed out cables that looked more dangerous than they really were. Frank could testify, he had already stuck his finger in there. By accident, of course.

Luckily Pete's place was on the first floor. He greeted them with loud high-fives, those that ended in shoulder bumps and patting each other on the back while their tails did their thing. Pete was always excited, his ears perked up and a big smile on his face. “Welcome to casa Wentz!” Pete also needed new material.

“Thank you for having us, and sorry for the last minute change,” said Ray, his own tail wagging a little.

“Hey, no problem, mi casa es su casa.”

“Why does it smell funny in here?” Frank scrunched his nose. Ray elbowed him, giving him a look and his ears flattening in a warning. “Seriously, what is it?”

“You know, I always think you’ve reached your peak in rudeness and you go and surpass yourself,” Pete replied, uncharacteristically upset. Frank was pretty sure that couldn’t be the first time he pointed out something putrid or dead after just putting one foot into his place.

“Sorry?”

“Whatever, just don’t be a dick,” Pete walked in front of him and guided them inside, where Mikey was sitting on the couch. “Here he is.”

“Hey,” the guy waved at them with his hand. Frank stared at him, squinting his eyes. There was something different from the night before, but he couldn’t quite put his finger on it, so he blamed it on the club being dark and watching Mikey from afar.

“Hi, I’m Ray,” he stepped in and shook Mikey’s hand. “This is Frank.”

“Hey,” said Frank from behind Ray, smiling as to get pleasantries out of the way. “So you wanna join the band,” he immediately followed up, crossing his arms on his chest and using the authority figure voice. It didn’t cause the same effect on everybody; Ray had to bite his lips not to laugh and it made Pete roll his eyes. Mikey just looked unaffected. 

“Yeah, you guys are awesome.”

“Flattery will get you far,” Frank smiled. “But we still want to hear you play one of our songs.”

“Sure. Can I pick? ‘Cause I really liked Sewerdog…” he started saying, getting up and grabbing his bass from the floor, causing Frank to catch that weird scent again and frown. He sniffed the air, trying to find where it came from, without realizing Pete was giving him a horrible look.

If that damn spray wasn’t still in his nostrils, he would’ve identified it by now.

“Wait,” he suddenly said. “Is that you?”

“Frank--” Pete tried to intervene.

“Is what me?” Mikey asked.

“That… smell, is it…” Frank looked more and more confused, as if he was back in algebra class trying to find the damn equivalent to x and y. “Are you a cat?”

“Yeah,” Mikey replied like it wasn’t a big deal, as if it was normal to go and ask someone that, and like Frank’s body language hadn’t turned visibly threatening. Pete and Ray seemed more insulted by the question than he was. “Is it a problem?”

“No, of course not!” Ray quickly said.

“Fuck yeah it is!” Frank argued. “We can’t have cats in our band.”

“Why the fuck not?” Pete questioned, getting upset for real. 

“It makes no sense!”

“Why not? Because you hate them?” Pete insisted.

“I don’t hate them,” Frank took a step back. That was a strong accusation, and he wasn’t going to admit being catphobic because he wasn’t, and he wasn’t going to admit especially in front of  _ one of them.  _ “But we are Frank Iero and the Katfuhkerz, so we must have two things: Frank Iero,” he pointed his finger at himself. “And Katfuhkerz,” he pointed at them.

“I fuck cats too,” Mikey offered.

“That’s NOT what we mean by Katfuhkerz,” Frank clarified and then had to reel it in a bit because his voice had come out more high-pitched than he would’ve wanted. “Not that there’s anything wrong with dogs and cats being in relationships, love is love, people can do whatever they want…”

He took a pause to breathe and gather his thoughts. It didn’t have anything to do with his personal feelings about those fucking cats--cat-people. It was simply about what was best for the band and they would inevitably have creative differences if they wanted to take an anarchist-punk approach and one of those silver-spoon fed cats wanted in. Mikey didn’t look like someone who knew punk. Frank could bet on him not ever having stepped in a mosh pit.

And now that he could watch him in detail, Frank felt like an idiot for not noticing he was a cat. Although, in his defense, his ears and tail were fluffier than he was used to seeing in that type of person and his posture was kind of slouched, he didn’t stand all stuck-up like those damn fucke--“Dude, stop staring,” said Pete.

“I wasn’t!”

“Look,” Mikey resumed the conversation. “It’s your band, your choice, but I don’t think it matters what I am. It should get down to if you like how I play.”

Frank parted his lips to say something he had to keep in, because it was a good argument and searching for support on Pete and Ray’s faces just made him feel like a piece of shit for not giving him at least a chance, so he just gestured for Mikey to go on. Mikey didn’t waste time and took his bass again.

He was good, there was no denying it. Frank’s gaze followed his fingers on the strings and his ears did the same with the sounds. The three of them listened in silence to Mikey perfectly playing their song and somehow managing to give it his own touch, making it even better. Frank wondered if Pete had prepared him or if that had been all Mikey, repeating the song over and over to identify and learn every chord. He assumed it was a bit of both and it made him feel a weird sensation that couldn’t be described with a word other than admiration.

Frank pursed his lips, ignoring his traitor foot tapping along with the rhythm. Ray and Pete were unashamed in their approval. He hated how they had already agreed, making him the bad guy for having a vision for their project.

Even Mikey gave him a hopeful look once he was done. There was an awkward pause where the three of them waited for Frank to give them an answer.

“We’ll get back to you.”

“C’mon!” Pete shouted.

“I gotta think about it!” Frank argued. “I’m not saying no, but I’m starting to feel ambushed here.”

“It’s okay,” Mikey spoke, smiling at Pete and Ray in a way that was more calming than Frank’s words. “I can wait.”

***

“You heading out to Cat Heights?” he asked Ray while they got out of Pete’s building, back to walking down the street.

“Yeah, got classes at 5. You?”

“My shift starts at 6. Guess I can clock in early and see if they shorten it.”

He usually didn’t spend more time than strictly needed in that part of the city; in fact, he avoided it as much as possible, but Ray taught a music class in a University over there and Frank worked at an insufferably posh hipster coffee shop because it paid triple than the Starbarks in his neighborhood. That and he knew his friend must have some stuff to say to him and Frank wanted to give him the opportunity to do so in their 40-minute ride.

They got on a blue bus with a sign that read  _ ‘Azleah Hills’ _ —Cat Heights real name— and were lucky enough to find two empty seats. Ray took the one by the window that Frank kindly handed over despite being his favorite. He seemed upset enough to give him the silent treatment. It was the worst.

Frank searched his jeans pockets, looking for a dirty trick; he took two lollipops out, nothing fancy, just strawberry candy shaped like bones because all of their sweet treats were. “Want one?”

Ray stared at him for a bit, but inevitably smiled. They were his favorites. “You know I do.” Both of them ripped open the plastic wrappers and enjoyed their treats, maybe wishing all things were as easy as sharing sugar was. “I’m still pissed at you. You were such an asshole, Frank.”

“Yeah, I know,” Frank scratched his head, talking with the lollipop sticking out from the corner of his lips. “But you’re with me, right? Cats can’t play punk.”

“I’m SO not with you, dude. Mikey’s a fucking badass, you heard him play!”

“Well, yes, he’s good with the bass--”

“Amazing. I want you to say it.”

“Why?”

“Acknowledge the talent, dog.”

Frank shut his eyes and ignored how Ray had just treated him like they were part of a fraternity. “Amazing, fine. But his soul doesn’t know punk. No cat has been through half the shit we’ve been through, all they know is taking their daddy’s credit card and drunk driving their BMWs.”

“That’s such a stereotype. You know nothing about Mikey.”

“I know enough.”

“You know he’s a cat and that’s enough for you. You know, Frankie, I never pegged you for this much of a bigot. No, no, hear me out,” he raised the hand that was holding the lollipop and pointed it at Frank when he opened his mouth to interrupt. “It’s okay to criticize the structure and point out the unfairness and unbalance among classes, but you never blame it upon the individual. It’s not about one person, it’s about the system.”

Yes, Frank had to accept it. He hated arguing with people smarter than him. “I just don’t want our message to change.”

“It won’t. Besides, don’t you think saying _‘fuck cats’,_ as a concept, will be stronger by having one of them with us?”

“Shit,” Frank bit into his lollipop, making a lot of noise while chewing it, smiling. “Shit, Toro, you’re manipulating me so hard.”

“Well, is it working?”

Frank got up from his seat to reach Ray’s head and rub his curls between his ears. “It is, you fucker!” he said, both laughing.

Sitting back, he sighed and kept chewing on the plastic stick from his candy, steering the conversation to another one of their issues. “Now we just need to fix the money situation to rent a space we can actually practice in, and you know, record something.”

The silence that followed after Ray being so chatty and argumentative made Frank suspect he was about to hear something even worse than the idea of accepting a cat into their band, and that was already awful, so he braced himself. “They called again, you know?” Ray told him, his ears lowering a bit, looking guilty. “They offered 10% more.”

“No. No way.”

“It’s a lot of money…”

“No, Ray, you’ve just bullshitted me into one thing. I already told them no.”

Ray shrugged. “We can always invest in those edibles…”

They would have to evaluate if their finances were strong enough to be handed over to a stoner with a dream and no business experience.

On a second thought, they needed to find another way.

  
  


***

Yeah, sure, Ray made an excellent point when he talked about how the system should be criticized and not the individual, but when it came to Gerard Way, Frank thought he was indeed someone who deserved to be personally blamed. Gerard Way represented everything that was wrong with society and its fucking model that placed cat-people above them, where you had to be born with cat ears and tail to achieve anything in life, and have every single chance handed to you because your family had slaved others for centuries to make their ridiculous fortunes that they still protected and claimed were the product of their own hard work, when they had never paid a single cent in taxes for all of their businesses.

Gerard Way put him in a bad mood. And his fucking face was all over the city, no matter where you went. If it wasn’t because his next concert had pre-sale tickets, it was because it had sold out, or he was about to be signing vinyls in who-knows-what record store, or he was going to be the next guest in a shitty TV show no one even watched anymore, or he was selling some awful perfume that only cats with their dumb sense of taste could use. They were such morons, spending hundreds of dollars to smell like grass and lavender.

Frank was sick of seeing his face and that was the main reason for him to be out at midnight with his face covered, a hoodie over his ears and a couple of spray paint cans in his backpack. He had climbed a giant billboard where the fucker was advertising some shampoo with his stupid blonde hair that was so evidently bleached when compared to his darker ears and tail. Not that Frank spent a lot of time analyzing those details, they were just that obvious.

Few things brought Frank more pleasure than painting over that idiot’s face, which he did at least three times a week. He drew giant noses on him, ridiculous hairy eyebrows or blacked out all of his teeth to make him look like a turtle. Sometimes he made him a zombie, crossed out his eyes, or went for his usual drawing of some turds around him, it depended on what he felt in the moment. He wrote messages like  _ “fuhk all katz” _ and  _ “i’m going to kill this fuhker.” _ And as the final touch, he signed with his own character, a ghost dog called Barky. Well, the real final step was taking a selfie in front of his art holding his middle finger up and posting the photo to his secret Instagram profile. There were a lot more people who hated Gerard Way and they loved his interventions. 

Well, yes, sometimes his fan club butted in to defend him and Frank mainly ignored them, but sometimes couldn’t help himself in his need to argue. He thought Gerard’s fans were particularly annoying, because their arguments were always about how he had changed or plain out saved their lives. Frank couldn’t believe how brainwashed they were. They defended him as if they knew him personally. Insufferable fucks.

Frank put his paints away and grabbed his backpack, getting down from the billboard in a few well calculated grips and jumps, until he was back on the ground. It looked even better from there, so he had to take another picture. It was his biggest intervention until now, he was proud of his work and, best of all, having less of that fucker on HIS side of town. Seriously, why the fuck did he bother to advertise and perform on Doghood? Did he even have dog-fans?

He stuffed his hands in the hoodie and began walking home, looking over his shoulder to make sure there were no patrols around. Truth be told, they rarely did surveillance rounds over there. The real challenge was to do graffiti over at Cat Heights. Frank had been detained two times and Ray warned him there was no more money left to bail him out. It was frustrating, especially noticing many more pictures on his way home.

Ignoring was really the best solution. To most people those posters had a wallpaper effect where they didn’t even see it and just went on with their lives without looking twice, but it made Frank’s blood boil and he was growling and grinding his teeth. He didn’t understand the fascination over that guy, there were so many talented people who could sing and were also moderately attractive, like maybe he was. A lot of people were better deserving of that fame and recognition he got only for being a cat and having the luxury of being musically trained from a young age and no, Frank hadn’t read his autobiography, he had only heard it from Ray as a fun fact that he had started singing at the age of five and pfff, Frank would have too if his parents were loaded. Frank would have done much more if he had the chances people born on the other side of the city enjoyed.

He couldn’t help ripping one of the posters off when he got to his own corner, near his home, and found it plastered all over. It was HIS territory. HIS rundown building, HIS crappy apartment. HIS FUCKING TURF.

Still growling, he thought of drawing something particularly offensive and posting it later. Maybe some good old dicks, although he would surely get comments about some sort of internalized homophobia and it had nothing to do with that, dicks were just funny.

Well, dicks on Gerard Way’s face wasn’t the message he was trying to send out.

***

Once inside his room, in his pajamas —also known as the t-shirt he had been wearing all day and briefs—, his gaze traveled along the poster he had tossed all crumbled up somewhere on the floor. Yes, he could use some sleep, but you know what would be even better? Ruining Gerard’s face again. Just one more time. As a treat.

He sat on the bed and spread the poster open, staring at it with furrowed eyebrows. He hadn’t picked up on it being a deodorant ad, so the guy was shirtless. Okay, this really called for a new drawing, a really good one. Frank held the marker between his fingers, ready to use it, analyzing what his approach should be. The marker spun between his fingers. He softly tapped his lips with it, and ended up trying to balance it on his nose when his mind couldn’t come up with any ideas. Was he really that dried up? Yeah, he had only slept two hours last night, but Frank ALWAYS had ideas. It was his thing.

He started biting the marker. His mind kept coming back to drawing dicks, perhaps even having one blowing on the guy’s face, just dripping jizz all over. And thinking about dicks made him horny. But looking at Gerard Way’s face made him angry. He was now conflicted.

Maybe he needed to jerk off once to refresh his mind. Of course he had slept with someone just the night before, but this was different, this was a creative and intellectual process to clear his head, necessary for his very important and not at all silly task of intervening that poster and it had absolutely nothing to do with Gerard Way. He made a point of it by taking out his phone and searching through porn categories for people who looked nothing like him. Dog-people, for starters. And none of those inter-classes shit because Frank didn’t care for it. Sure, people could do whatever they wanted, it was a free country, but… yeah, Frank was still judgmental. 

He chose a video with two guys and every tag he liked, which was basically promising everyone would get their mouths, tongues and spit everywhere. Frank rarely had enough patience to watch through the set up, this time it was something along the lines of classmates studying together, it didn’t matter, he just skipped until they started taking their clothes off, paying attention especially to the part where they lowered their pants, one of them kneeling in front of the other to carefully push them down and make sure his tail wouldn’t get caught in his clothing. Romantic. Frank grabbed his cock inside his boxers and skipped the video some more until one of the guys had his whole face in the other’s ass. That’s the stuff. Yes, it was working, and he licked his lips while muttering instructions for the actors, about how they should go deeper and asking them how they liked it. 

He brought his hand to his mouth and spat on it before going back in, shutting his eyes because of how good it started feeling. It was a lot better to be masturbating instead of watching that stupid poster with Gerard Way, he didn’t even know why he had taken it in the first place.

Frank felt himself getting harder under his fingers at the thought of Gerard Way and shook his head, biting his lips, as if telling himself _bad boy,_ not in the sexy way. No, he wasn’t going to think about Gerard Way. It was his stupid head trying to prank him and ruin his release. He forced his eyes open to watch the video, where they were blowing each other off. Right, blow jobs were good, he was watching them closely… But his eyes went to the poster. He hadn’t noticed, and he wasn’t noticing now, how Gerard’s nipples were a pretty shade of pink. And he could bite them. Obviously not in a nice way, but to hurt him, and maybe make him moan, but not out of pleasure, just because of the pain. And he could bite his stupid neck too, it was too white, he needed someone to mark it and show him his place, and yank his dumb blonde hair and, whatever, maybe push him into Frank’s crotch and Gerard would suck him off. That would be completely humiliating, right? Not that he wanted to get a blow job from him, it would only be about teaching him a lesson.

His phone was soon forgotten on the bed, and he went on to grab the piece of paper. Fuckin’ Gerard Way, he surely enjoyed being manhandled like that. He had seen him in concerts, not by his own choice, but he had seen him shaking his hips, laying on the floor spreading his legs, dropping to his knees and licking microphones, he was a fuckin’ whore. Fuckin’, fuckin’ whore. Frank could picture him with cum dripping down his chin from how much cock he must suck daily. Yeah, he probably spent all of his time sucking cocks.

He was stroking himself faster and a bit angry, which weirdly worked for him. Still grunting and grinding his teeth, he had no idea if he was madder than horny or the other way around, but it didn’t matter, it felt good enough and his hips were thrusting into his fist. He didn’t question it when he got closer to the picture, thinking about that guy’s mouth around his dick while Frank’s fingers pulled his hair, and he muttered something like “take it, fuckin’ whore” while he came, opening his eyes to watch his jizz all over Gerard Way’s face. Well, poster. He really milked it, moving his hand around to place the last few drops in an almost artistic way.

He allowed himself a few seconds to breathe and then it came: The Moment of Shame. It wasn’t just closing his porn tabs this time, but the realization, admitting he had put his phone away and focused only on… on him. Knowing what brought him over the edge was practically dreaming about fucking someone he hated. For the first time he actually felt dirty, and he rushed to grab the poster by the corners and crumple it, trying to keep everything inside, but hurrying over to the bathroom to throw it away and wash his hands, wanting to erase every trace. 

No one had to know. Not even him. No, that hadn’t happened. He would go to sleep and next morning that would be out of his memory and he would go back to despising the guy’s guts.

  
  


***

The next band meeting was on a Friday night at the club where Pete worked and the owners sometimes lent them a room if it hadn’t been rented. They tried not to use too much Pete’s trick of telling clients it was already taken, because it would be too easy to trace and it was all they had for now.

Frank Iero and the Katfuhkers was mainly a personal project for them, one they protected with all their might. It was highly acclaimed in the punk scene, everybody on Doghood knew about them and went to their concerts, despite them being together for only a few months. And they had offers from two music labels in Cat Heights, but it would be an understatement to say Frank would rather chew his own tail off than signing any piece of paper with a company on that side. It was also common knowledge that punk died when cats got their hands on it.

Presently, the most urgent business was replacing their bassist and Frank had made a decision, not at all out of guiltiness for being an asshole days ago, and it absolutely had nothing to do with his pretty private slip up that he had told no one about and could barely remember.

“Okay, Mikey. You’re in,” he announced once it was just the four of them in the room, the noises from people partying outside barely muffled through the walls. “Welcome to the band.”

While Mikey settled for a smile, Ray and Pete did enough scandal in his place, jumping and hugging him between them, one arm reaching out for Frank to join them and suddenly there were three excited dog tails wagging out of control, yelling and laughter, and also a shy cat tail twitching in happiness. 

“We’re all very happy, yes,” Frank was the first one to pull apart from the group hug, but kept smiling. “Now let’s see if this new formation actually works.”

As if it was exactly what everyone had been waiting for, each of them went for their own instruments. Frank took the main microphone and started giving them instructions about which songs to play and when to start. He wouldn’t lie saying everything was perfect from the beginning with Mikey, it took a bit of time for the group to come together, but once they got there, yes, it felt closer to perfection than they had ever been. It was the first time the band sounded that good, the first time Frank sang thinking they actually had something that could work, beyond his own dreams and what he wanted to believe.

It wasn’t only wishful thinking anymore, it was a room filled to the brim with talent.

“Shit,” Ray smiled after they played for an hour and a half without stopping. His hair was wet from sweat and he had to hold it with both hands to get it away from his neck. “Guys, that was awesome. Like, for real.”

Pete nodded and Mikey smiled, looking pleased with himself, and maybe getting confident enough to ask something he had been meaning to from the beginning. “Why haven’t you recorded an album yet?”

“Money,” Pete let out, spinning a drumstick in the air. “We don’t want a label, we want to do it independently and that… well, takes money.”

“But we’re saving for it. What we can. We think maybe in six months or so… If someone stops using our funds for bail-outs.” Frank looked up to the ceiling, playing dumb. “Or if that same someone just took the fucking photoshoot job.”

“What photoshoot job?” Pete asked. “There’s a photoshoot job?”

“No,” Frank gave Ray a pissed off look. “There’s not. I declined.”

“Dude, they’re offering 10k for two days of work for a stupid advertising campaign.”

Pete’s eyes almost fell out of his face from the shock. “What?! Fucking take it, man! It’s just photos!”

Frank shook his head. “It’s not punk.”

“I don’t fuckin’ care! It’s not punk either to stop doing music because we can’t afford it!”

He was sure there had to be some good enough argument to throw back, but Frank was starting to realize he had been the common factor the last few days in being an obstacle for the band to move one. How come he was the only one denying things the group wanted? Was he hurting them with his attitude?

He took a deep breath, scratching his scruffy beard for a moment. He still didn’t want to do it.

“Is it really a big deal?” Mikey asked in almost a whisper. Ray sighed, perhaps thinking Mikey was ready to be let in their group dynamic and one of Frank’s most stubborn subjects.

“It’s because they want him to work side by side with Gerard Way.”

“Hot,” said Pete. Mikey remained silent and stared at Frank, not particularly inquisitive, but it was enough to make him feel like he had to give some sort of explanation and there was only one, no matter how childish and ridicule.

“I hate that guy!”

***

**Author's Note:**

> This a (belated) birthday present for Viky 💖 CEO of Puppy Frank. I can't tell you how happy I am to have met you! You're one of the funniest, kindest, most talented people I know and I hope we'll just grow closer with time. 
> 
> And people who are not Viky: hope this wasn't too weird for you? I'll be on [Twitter](https://twitter.com/kitoko69) re evaluating my life choices.


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